Too Tired For Regret
by MintSauce
Summary: There's that point though, Mickey supposes, when it's hard to work out if the ache in his bones is memories or the cold. And when there are those days he doesn't even remember it's there at all. It's not forgetting. It's learning how to breathe again.


Mickey's fingers are numb where they poke out the ends of his gloves and his bones ache with the cold that's frosting the air with each breath. His thigh seizes with every other step, the ghost of an old wound clutching at him; although that could just have been the ghost of fingers curled around the meat of his leg, holding tight.

He loses track sometimes, the memories all blur into one in his head these days.

He licks at the corner of his chapped lip, wincing at the soreness because he'd already bitten off all of the flaking skin the day before. Old habits die the hardest after all and he'd always hold the Southside habit of inflicting just a little bit of pain where ever possible.

There isn't snow on the ground, but ice instead and he thinks that there's something incredibly fucked when it's too cold to even snow. But it's whatever. He's raged at a lot of things in his life, most of them irrational probably, but even he understands the futility of screaming at the weather.

Or maybe he's just tired. Too tired to shout and scream.

Too tired to do much of anything other than push his hands deeper into his pockets and trudge onwards, boots slipping a little on ice before they catch on the haphazardly scattered grit along the path.

Whoever had done that particular job had been in a rush, he could tell. No doubt someone would brain themselves for another man's haste somewhere along the line. But wasn't that always the case? Even outside of Chicage, he still found that the same rules applied.

He was in some no name town, or at least, a town where the name wasn't interesting enough to stick in Mickey's mind. He'd been drifting around for several years now, but he'd settled the past few months, something inside of his chest clinging to this place. He felt like he couldn't quite breathe right every time he packed a bag and put a hand on the door, ready to leave. It was like he'd forgottten in that moment that it took to stretch his hand out what the function of dragging air into his ruined, bllacked, smoke-clogged lungs even was.

Although, he'd quit smoking a while back.

He'd been too poor at one point to even afford that and the effort hadn't been in stealing them really. And when he'd landed another job and there was money left over for something other than food or a warm place to sleep, he found that the itch under his skin and the jump in his fingertips was gone. The craving hadn't completely disappeared, but then it probably never would.

He was just better at ignoring it that was all.

Or maybe he wasn't ignoring it at all. Maybe he was just better at living despite it. That was probably more accurate.

He dug around in his pocket and counted out the few scraps of change he had settled in the bottom, handing it over to the frozen looking girl at the coffee stand. He grunted out the simple order of "Coffee, black."

And it almost didn't hurt when the voice in the back of his head sing-songed, "Like your soul."

He'd gotten good at living despite that too. But then, it didn't actually crop up so much anymore. The memories were always there, but he didn't feel the crushing, soul-destroying need to drag them up every opportunity he got.

He left that for his particularly bad days. The days everyone knew to instinctly steer clear of him, because of the rage in his eyes and the pitiful shake in his fingers. Or maybe it was the other way around. Maybe all anyone saw was sadness when they looked into the blue of his eyes on those days. He didn't stick around to ask.

He often didn't say much of anything anymore, not needing to. His voice sometimes growing scratchy with misuse when he finally coughed out an instruction or request at work or placed his coffee order. He thought it was weird the way the world worked, not that he'd ever talked that much before. But there weren't many - any - people to be snapping witty comments at anymore.

He'd left them all behind.

Or they'd left him. His mind purposefully blurred the details.

He curled his hand thankfully around the cup, not even caring that it would probably taste like utter shit when the warmth started to seep into his fingers. He crumpled the ring of cardboard around the cup in his hand and tossed it, wanting nothing between him and the saving heat of the coffee.

The town and its crappy little excuse for a park were quiet this time in the day, whilst most people were at work or cowering somewhere warm at least.

Mickey would usually be with them, but he hadn't been able to sleep and he was killing time before work. He knew he probably looked like shit, dark smudges standing out prominently underneath his eyes. But they'd been there for years - since birth probably - so when he looked in the mirror, he could hardly tell the difference.

He shrank down in his coat and took a scalding sip of bitter coffee as his eyes moved around the collection of sparse, bare trees and rickety benches. The movement was almost as lazy as each footstep, but a whole lot less careful.

His gaze lingered on the set of a man's shoulders underneath his coat and the thoughts that buzzed through his brain moved too fast for him to grasp any of them really, but the general impression left a bittersweet tang in the back of his throat that he recognised deep in his gut for what it really was. He watched in curious disinterest as the guy twisted, pale fingers reaching out to tug on the hat of his companion, pulling it lower over his pink ears and both of their lips moved to form words that Mickey couldn't hear from this distance.

Still, he recognised the shape of the smile and the flush of red across the man's cheekbones. He recognised those long fingers as they were shoved back into his pockets and he was surprised by how little his chest ached at the sight.

His fingertips tingled where they were still wrapped around the heat of the cardboard in his grasp and for a moment he entertained the idea of walking over there. He wondered what expression would cross Gallagher's face, if he'd recognise him - of course he would. He wondered if he'd scowl, or if, after all of this time, like Mickey he was just too tired for all of that. He wondered if he'd ruin the moment though, if he'd pop the bubble Gallagher had obviously wrapped himself in with his boyfriend if he went over there.

He supposed he probably would.

It had been too long now for Mickey to even begin to know what to say. There weren't any words left, there wasn't an ending anymore to the sentence he wished he'd finished all that time ago. There was only memories and regrets and the subtle ache in his leg that felt like fingers, like the puff of breath against his cheek and sounded like the anxious gasping of his name.

Mickey watched for just another moment, finger flexing around his cup as Gallagher's feet scuffed through the haphazard scattering of grit.

He wasn't close enough to hear words, but the sound of Gallagher's laugh rang out clearly.

The corner of Mickey's mouth twitched.

He swallowed another bitter sip of coffee and flicked his eyes down to his watch. It was almost time for work, he supposed. There was no shame in him being a little early.

His foot slipped a little on the ground as he turned away, but he put one foot in front of the other easily as he walked away, the sound of laughter new and old rattling around his brain.

And in the morning he packed a bag and set his hand on the doorknob. The only thing that ached was his leg in that familiar way and Mickey breathed out a long breath. It almost felt like a relief in so many ways. His fingers itched for a cigarette and he scratched behind his ear instead.

And so life went on. One foot in front of another, just that little bit easier than before.


End file.
